All A Twitter…

In what is probably one of the more ridiculous admissions made in this lifetime, I must fully acknowledge that I have a bizarre love/hate relationship with Twitter.

Sometimes just using the word makes me feel like just I substituted a dirty word in the presence of children.

“That girl can be such a twitter!”

“He’s a son of a twitter.”

“That gymnast just cracked their twitter on the balance beam. Ouch!”

But I digress.

My initial reaction to the invention of this game-changing app was blatant disregard. The purist in me thought it was a further nail in the coffin of human interaction, which would enable my already half-hearted desire to be in a room with people on a regular basis. Then it morphed into semi-hatred when it became clear that in order to satisfy the 140-character limit, you end up decimating the English language with barely translatable text. (Sometimes I think my brother learned his entire vocabulary through this method.) Prior to people realizing they could simply send multiple messages to convey a thought, ppl tlkd lk no1 wnt 2 skool.

Once it became clear that it wasn’t going away, and had, in fact, grown in popularity as even politicians began using it, my intrigue set in. As staunchly against abbreviated thoughts as I’d been, there was no denying that the influence of Twitter was evident. Hell, Corey Booker’s entire political career might exist because of it. For celebrities and other influencers, the number of followers they had were equated to human currency.

So I created an account… and quickly got bored with it. I was more interested in the real-time news and confirming rumored deaths and other gossip than anything. The idea of sharing random thoughts to the “Twitterverse” disturbed me… although one of my girlfriends in D.C. and I made a regular habit of doing award show commentaries on it as if we were the two old puppets on “The Muppet Show”.

Twitter was our heckling paradise.

While some would say it’s the same as writing a Facebook status, or possibly even blogging, one can at least control the level of exposure and/or response to some extent via those platforms. Whereas on the flip side, I inexplicably found myself being “followed” by people with porn star names, and getting spam messages about checking out sites that probably lead to viruses.

Then one day it became clear to me why this newfangled social media thingy was so damn popular…

While flipping through the timeline, I saw a “tweet” from Vanity Fair in which they quoted the rapper Chamillionaire. Instantly, my thought was two things: the first was that their account was being tasked by someone likely born in the ’90’s, and the second was how awesome it was that a magazine typically associated with covering socialites and the scandalous misdeeds of the rich and famous from the “old-money” set was mentioning a man made famous by a song called “Ridin’ Dirty”.

In fact, it struck me so oddly fantastic that I wrote a tweet about it, in which I said “Whenever I wonder why I’m on Twitter, I see something random like @VanityFair quoting @Chamillionaire.” And promptly signed off.

Hours later, while checking my email, there was a message telling me Chamillionaire re-tweeted my message. Apparently, he was just as amused as I was.

It was then that I realized that as much of a bitchfest as Twitter can be, the draw is that the “Average Joe” has an opportunity to be acknowledged by people they normally only see in the media. Very often, you’ll see re-tweets from celebrities where the initial sender literally begs for one. They also have the perfect platform to publicly stalk, scold, and shame people with minimal risk of an arrest or being slapped with a restraining order.

Even after getting a direct message from a rap artist asking about an artwork I posted a photo of, ribbing an actor friend — who I’d later date — about an ill-fated picture, and exchanging occasionally humorous dialogue with notable personalities, my feelings about Twitter were still teetering on ambivalent.

Until this morning… when I got an email informing me that Amel Larrieux was now following me. A significant upgrade from wannabe porn stars. It’s one thing for them to respond to you, it’s another thing for them to follow you.

I nearly twittered my pants.

Suddenly, the pressure to write better abbreviated thoughts become tenfold when you learn an artist of her caliber might be reading them.

And just when I thought I had reached my crazy zenith for the week, a photo taken by a well-known entertainment reporter I used to work with popped up on Instagram (another stalker hotbed). It was of Grace Jones re-tweeting him, with the caption: “This. Just. Happened. I Die.” (I fear should Liza Minelli or Dolly Parton ever do the same, he really will die from the excitement.)

Validation ensued.

At first, I contemplated ending this post with a pledge to tweet responsibly and encourage you all to do the same. But who are we kidding? Some of the best and/or most memorable stuff are the off-the-cuff epic meltdowns of legend, i.e. Weiner, Bynes, Baldwin, Cyrus, and the queen of ’em all… Rihanna (as hot as that girl may be, she is a whole bag of crazy — and we love her for it).

Instead, my PSA for the day is more in the lines of don’t drink and tweet, mind your grammar, and resist the urge to post “selfies” of any nature.

It’s all fun and games til something goes viral…

So follow me @lrbnyc and let’s see how much fun — or trouble — we can get into…

Celebrity Skin (Reborn)

[The following is a “cleaned up” version of a post that required “tweaking”. Much like the subjects involved.]

After seven days, one harrowing family emergency, one pretty promising work week, two NBA Finals games, one emotional Amel Larrieux concert, one hour and a half walk, one Central Park run, one Yoga class, one appropriately titled dark comedy mocking celeb culture and hours of chanting/meditation… I finally cried.

But strangely, not for the reasons I used to.

While dating a celebrity is the dream of many, it’s never been my life goal. I’d spent years working around actors, models and entertainers in some capacity, and understood the caveats of that world. So much, in fact, that I ran screaming from it in pursuit of a “normal” life in the form of a retail career and a buttoned-up architect boyfriend.

Both lasted eight and five years, respectively… an eternity in my world, and the benchmarks that validate my ability to be committed to some-thing/one when I begin to wonder.

Alas, like the Mafia, the universe has always found a way to bring me back to that environment.

So when I met a cocky-but-charming actor last summer, I chalked it up to a fun encounter that wouldn’t amount to anything more. That he didn’t live in the same city made dating him even less of a possibility.

Nonetheless, we kept in touch, and a new friendship began.

Months of only speaking by way of the internet and mobile apps segued into hours-long phone conversations in which we’d get lost in thought and time while discovering striking similarities in our experiences and beliefs. Alas, we were so similar, that the conclusion to this story came as no surprise. In him, I found a kindred spirit who, like myself, found our “happy place” despite hardscrabble upbringings through spirituality. His passion and driven nature inspired me, and — slowly — I began to imagine a scenario that seemed initially absurd.

But, also like myself, that same upbringing which forced us to be so profoundly independent minded and welcoming of the unknown, harbors insecurities and defense mechanisms that can kill burgeoning romances. Especially ones with difficult and virtually impossible challenges at its inception.

So, what happened? Many things. A man whose words are softer than his touch and a woman whose touch is softer than her words equates to a lit match near kerosene. Accusations and assumptions based on previous experiences. (The majority of which surprisingly not coming from my camp. No, really, I’m shocked.) Mutual feelings of being taken for granted combined with scheduling challenges, unfulfilled personal goals that require more attention, fatigue, poor communication and unfortunate circumstances.

You know… the usual cocktail for disaster.

Which is sad, because in another life with less anxiety, we could have been a dynamic family… if people like us believed we could be a family, as opposed to broken people seeking redemption through blind faith and kind words we can’t (or won’t) support with action.

In spite of things, there are no regrets. Only love and admiration for him and what he has given me: a renewed value in my time, and appreciation for how little of it I have to spend giving up my own dreams and desires for someone who hasn’t made a vow to do the same, or at least share our loads equally as partners.

Yes, it is an absolutely selfish stance to take on. But at this point if I’m gonna be a failure at relationships, I should at least be successful in other aspects. If you can’t beat ’em… join ’em.

The only exception — natch — is if you’ve come out of my vagina. Then all bets are off.

Until then… it’s all good. Broken hearts lead to thicker skins.

Although he, by far, has the more superior moisturizer.